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Bird -Lore 



in. Then Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow perched 

 themselves on the cage and began skirmish- 

 ing whenever the Wren came with a stick. 

 They also sat by the half-dozen, on and 

 about the Bluebird's box, squawking and 

 charging on them frequently. At this point 

 I decided to carry the war into Africa, and 

 purchased a 22 -caliber rifle and some fine 

 shot cartridges. Thus equipped, I watched 

 my opportunity, and whenever I saw a Spar- 

 row perched aloft or on the step at either 

 door I fired to kill, and usually succeeded. 

 I shot as often as possible when the other 

 birds were absent, but killed Sparrows often 

 when the Wrens looked on and seemed to 

 twitter a song of rejoicing at the downfall of 

 the enemy. Both Bluebirds and Wrens 

 raised their broods in comparative peace with 

 my aid and the good offices of the little gun. 

 I must now record something (regretfully) 

 against our dear little, cunning, happy Wren. 

 I never could have believed it if I had not 

 seen it. After the Bluebirds hatched and 

 reared their six or seven little bluets, and they 

 had gone to care for themselves, I thoroughly 

 cleaned their house, and puffed insect powder 

 into it. The old birds soon returned, re- 

 built their nest and laid their eggs. One 

 afternoon, as my wife sat on the rear piazza, 

 some fifteen feet from the little English wal- 

 nut tree in which the nest hung, she heard 

 such a chattering about the box as to attract 

 her attention and, looking, she beheld a 

 Wren with a shell of a Bluebird's egg in its 

 beak and another in a great glee over the 

 wreck. She called me, and I went to the res- 

 cue, but too late, for in the few minutes 

 they had demolished every egg. The Blue- 

 birds returned, examined the wreck and pil- 

 lage, mourned about the box, going in and 

 out, looking suspiciously at us, then left in 

 seeming disgust and did not again return or 

 attempt to rebuild. Notwithstanding all my 

 shooting about the lot (a town lot), six kinds 

 of birds besides the English Sparrow nested 

 and reared their youngon the premises, much 

 to our delight. In addition to these, a Downy 

 Woodpecker, attracted by suet kept tied in a 

 cherry tree near the kitchen window for his 

 benefit in winter, pecked a hole for a winter 

 home in the limb of a tree near the front 

 piazza where the Wren-box was located and 



where I shot most of the Sparrows. How- 

 ever, after the hard and tedious work of the 

 Downy in the completing of a winter home, 

 it was driven from it by the beastly Spar- 

 row. Shoot him! — J. C. Allen, Hacketts- 

 toivn, N. J. 



A Tragedy 



Walking back into the unfrequented part 

 of the Glen one lovely autumn afternoon, 

 I saw a large Hawk rise from the ground, 

 and as the tail caught the sunlight, it was 

 revealed as a Red-tailed — the comparatively 

 leisurely flight seeming more surely to fix 

 the identity. 



It was so unusual to see Buteo borealis thus 

 rise from the ground that my suspicions were 

 at once aroused, nor were they quieted when 

 I saw the ground strewn with feathers. The 

 natural conclusion was that a Plymouth 

 Rock had met an untimely end, but curios- 

 ity led me closer. To my amazement, the 

 victim proved to be another Hawk, and an 

 immature Red-tailed. The poor thing was 

 still quite warm and limp, but the belly was 

 ripped open by the murderous beak of the 

 adversary and partly eaten. There had been 

 a battle royal, for one wing was torn off and 

 lay several feet distant. The toe of one foot 

 was injured and bent about the adjacent one. 

 It lay there a mute picture of vanquished 

 greatness. A fine, majestic fellow it had 

 been, and the upper breast with the deli- 

 cately marked feathers still looked soft and 

 vital. I tried to pull some of the tail-feath- 

 ers, but they were too firmly grown. Fancy 

 the terrific wrench required to sever the 

 wing! It was too badly torn to make a 

 good skin. The victorious Hawk loitered 

 about, loath to give up its quarry, then 

 finally flew quietly away. 



It was, to me, most surprising and hor- 

 rible that a mature Hawk (and a Buteo not 

 an Accipiter) should fight to the death and 

 eat an immature bird of the same species. 

 We do not expect Hawks to be altogether 

 above reproach in their conduct toward 

 feathered creatures, but that this Hawk of 

 good repute should be caught in the act of 

 avian homicide, as it were, seems most re- 

 volting. — Lucy V. Baxter Coffin, Rich- 

 mond, Ind. 



